


If you don't fly

by faeriesung



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 02:18:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9857642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeriesung/pseuds/faeriesung
Summary: “Atar, when will your work be finished?” Pityo spoke quietly, next to Fëanor’s ear.“Perhaps never,” Fëanor responded without a thought. His gaze rested on the horizon, now tinted with shades of blue and grey -- for a split instant his mind traversed to a place beyond the sea, and beyond the light of Laurelin. “…if you ask thus.”“Then how should I ask, so that your work will be finished today?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for the Back to Middle Earth Month Challenge in March 2012. Now re-uploaded to AO3.

It was as any other day then. Almost the sixth hour of Laurelin, its light beginning to wane. The apprentices had been, to Fëanor’s greatest relief each day, gladly dismissed. Mind and heart now bent on returning to the ceaseless labour of his personal project, Fëanor made his way towards his private forge and office. In his arms was a box of blueprints and the day’s notes that almost occluded his face.

Something was amiss in the forge. As he pushed opened the door that led to the hall, he heard a flutter of wings near the high ceiling. He warned himself to keep the door locked next time, even if it was just to fetch documents from the nearby workshop. He figured the door had probably swung on its hinges, hence allowing a bird to find its way in through the gap. Fëanor set the box down to properly latch the door, his mind yet preoccupied with the annoyance --

_Could it be that one of the vents requires mending? Though they had been inspected only two days before. Perhaps this door should be replaced altogether, being worn from frequent movement and delivery of equipments…_

As the door was shut, the hall dimmed into a dull semi-darkness, with scattered light coming only through the gridded vents near the ceiling. The click and clang of the bolt and latch echoed through the large, cavernous space. Insidiously, from a far corner behind the loud echoes, flowed a soft staccato of sounds that were high-pitched but definitely did not belong to a bird. Fëanor could not immediately pin it down. Flustered and alarmed, he hastened deeper into the hall, manoeuvring deftly among his myriad of cargoes and retired equipments.

He bumped into what felt like a rock against his thigh.

A sharp cry went up. Fëanor looked down and saw one of his youngest sons, Pityafinwë. He turned his gaze to the gate that led to the forge itself, and found Pityo’s counterpart, Telufinwë, clinging on to one of the higher bars of the gate, his left hand crawling tenaciously towards the highest bolt.

“AMBARUSSA!! What business have you here?!”

“Ata…” Pityo ventured to speak, but Fëanor let out a short sigh of impatience and restrained rage as he pushed past, and proceeded to retrieve Telvo without casting a glance at the other twin. Telvo whined in protest as his father unhooked the boy rather ruthlessly from the gate. Anger rose to Fëanor’s throat. Inwardly, he was only consoled by the fact that no child could breach the elaborate lock he had set up for this gate.

“And WHAT is the meaning of that creature?!”

Fëanor shot a finger towards the ceiling, where wings were now fluttering against one of the vents.

“…it’s a white sparrow. Tyelkormo caught it for us.” Pityo spoke tentatively, with a voice soft as a squirrel, slightly quivering. The twins cowered against the gate, Telvo’s hand held tightly in Pityo’s.

“He says if we release it, our wish may come true.” Telvo piped in, somewhat more confident, firm as could be in his belief of this righteous and noble cause.

“Yea, but NOT HERE! This is a FORGE! My WORKPLACE! An enclosed interior!”

Fëanor all but smacked the twins. He promptly took hold of their collars and shuffled them towards the entrance to the hall. The twins stumbled as they struggled to keep the pace, but dared not protest even though the clutter scraped them now and then. In a sudden bout of courage, Pityo turned to speak to the livid, formidable figure behind him, as if heedless of its apparent fury.

 

“Atar… would you come for dinner tonight?” Pityo gazed up at his father, who neither looked at him nor slowed his steps.

“No. I asked Nerdanel not to fetch me. Did she se…”

“Atar… you have not dined with us for seven and sixty days.” As Telvo spoke, they came into an abrupt halt a little away from the door.

“Ahh… has it been that long… Perhaps in five days then…” Fëanor lowered his gaze then to find two small, scared, but eager faces, their grey eyes mirroring his own.

“Atar… when you are finished with your work, will you take us to the observatory?” Pityo ventured again, seeing that their endeavour had had some effect.

“Yea, perhaps. But I cannot promise you a time.” Fëanor replied coolly.

“Atar…. can it not be today?” Telvo spoke with a small, pleading frown.

“No, Ambarussa. Now will you leave me to finish my work?” Fëanor moved past the children to lift the latch, now craving more than anything for their swift exit.

 

“Atar, it is our begetting day.”

 

The clang of the latch reverberated through the hall. And then it was silent.

 

“…of course it is.”

Fëanor turned towards the two little boys, still huddled together. Their faces were slightly confused and hesitant as Fëanor knelt down on the stone-laid floor to be more level with their height.

"You turn eleven years old today.”

Fëanor studied his youngest sons in the dim light he had grown accustomed to in this hall. They had become a fair bit taller, much taller than he last took notice, and a little more sombre in countenance.

“I see that you’ve done a lot of growing up this past year. Good work. Nelyafinwë told me you’ve learnt to swim. And Telufinwë…”

“Atar… that was a long time ago.” Pityo’s face darkened into a disappointed, and slightly reproachful grimace. Telvo’s brows were creased, more in unhappiness than in plea now, childish, but completely undisguised in the disapproval of his father.

Fëanor hoped his expression displayed no chagrin. In front of him were two children of mere handful of years, whom he had named but whose first tooth he had not cared to notice, whose first step he did not witness, and whose hands he had not held in many months. They were his children, whose features and manner of speech bore resemblance to himself, yet they were becoming strangers to him, as him to them.

At this moment a sharp chip-chip sounded from high up. The twin’s attention turned simultaneously to the source of the sound near the ceiling. Fëanor was relieved to have this distraction, so that he would not have to presently bear the full weight of the children’s disappointment.

 

“Let us set the sparrow free before it starves.” Fëanor rose, and gave the twins a meaning look. With that, what clouded their faces vanished instantly to give way to hope and curiosity.

Slowly, Fëanor swung open the door to the hall. The low light of Laurelin cast long shadows behind the three figures, and strange shapes emerged beyond the old workbenches and anvils in the dark hall. Fëanor motioned the twins to stand clear of the doorway. He moved behind them, and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

There was a flutter of wings again, and then the white sparrow rested on one of the corbels. Fëanor mused at the sight of this rare bird, whose kind were usually of nondescript, earthy colours. He had very seldom seen a sparrow that was completely white. He only knew that sometimes a bird of such disparate colouring from its own was made an outcast of the flock, and was quicker to fall to prey. He studied the bird, but could not guess its song. There were dozens of types of sparrows, each with a different song, distinguished by variations in their colour patterns and subtle difference in the shape of beak and body. With the bird’s colour pure white and only a silhouette visible, Fëanor could only infer its specie from its chirping, which proved difficult.

“Have you heard its song?” Fëanor turned to the birds’ previous keepers, who shook their heads.

Fëanor guessed at a call, part of which, he realized, was more of his own concoction.

The bird was silent. But the hall rang with the laughter of Pityo and Telvo.

Fëanor could not help but smile at the sweet duet he had not often heard, and never in this hall, which usually echoed with a cacophony of brash and hurried voices of workmen intent on getting through with their tasks.

“ _O sweet thistle butterfly butterfly_ – now you try it, Ambarussa.”

The young twins were smiling at their father then, their faces bathed in the waning light of Laurelin, yet ever so brightly lit by mirth.

Telvo began the song, and Pityo followed. The white sparrow soon joined in the chorus with its own song. It swung its head towards the singers, but made no attempt to fly.

“ _O sweet thistle butterfly butterfly,_ ” The twins tried again, eyeing intently at the sparrow.

“ _…if you don’t fly, the hawk’ll get you ere you could cry._ ” Fëanor added the adage, almost unconsciously, in a soft, wistful whisper.

“Macalaurë said that to us the other day!” Telvo commented in a spark of surprise. The twins turned their gaze to Fëanor.

“I used to say that to Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë when they were your age.” Fëanor replied, a smile spread gently across his face in reminiscence. He met Ambarussa’s curious eyes as they widened, momentarily awed by the thought that their towering and stern-faced eldest brothers were once little elflings as they were now.

“They were troublemakers, as you are.” Fëanor added, partly in earnest and partly in good humour.

“Atar, we are not troublemakers.” The twins’ faces clouded over again, into a gloomy grimace as before – disappointed, and slightly puzzled.

 

“…are you not?”

The twins shook their heads silently. Their smiles from a moment before disappeared without a trace. It struck Fëanor then, that the very same expression was what he often saw of Nerdanel those days, when he met her hours after the second mingling of lights for a brief conversation.

Nerdanel was herself and artist and sculptor, who knew well the toil, dedication and perseverance essential to perfecting artistry. For that understanding Fëanor was glad. She rarely chided him, as very often each of them would speak in defence and begin to altercate. More often, she only reminded him constantly to take care of his health, and not to worry about the children. Though he could now no longer deny, that the knot in her brows and subdued tone of her voice betrayed every bit of her disappointment that he had conveniently saw past, as he did many other things.

It could not be helped. He had believed, and even more so now, despite all else.

 

Fëanor broke his gaze from the twins. As he looked again at the sparrow, who still perched on the same corbel among the scattered light, a cool breeze entered the hall from the door behind him. The bird sensed the movement of air, and took flight. In a smooth, graceful curve, the white sparrow glided through the open door with perfect poise. It flew high, and disappeared into Laurelin’s light.

Ambarussa had followed the sparrow out of the hall. Mirth had returned to their faces as they called again to their father in peals of laughter. Fëanor was only awoken from his fascination when Pityo walked over to tug at the cuff of his sleeve.

 

“Atar… would you please dine with us tonight?”

“Carnistir and Atarinkë are making caramel apples. For our sake.” Telvo briskly rejoined Pityo. He was smiling again now in anticipation, as he spoke of the sweet treat.

“…caramel apples?”

Fëanor paused.

“They have no idea how to make caramel. Let alone caramel apples.” His brows raised, Fëanor now spoke in a low, dramatically authoritative voice.

“They said that they have perfected the recipe.” Pityo explained.

“Fie. Have you tasted the caramel that I make?”

“No, Atar. You know how to make caramel?” The twins’ eyes widened again.

“It is a secret recipe I have not imparted to anyone.” Fëanor bent slightly, and raised a finger to his lips as he spoke in a low, furtive whisper.

“Really? It is our favourite sweet, Atar.” Sensing a lift in his father’s mood, Telvo brightened up in renewed excitement. His smile revealed a neat row of small, polished seashells. Fëanor remembered then how much he used to trouble himself over young Russandol’s teeth, as he, too had a great penchant for sweets. Fëanor thought he probably still did now, but would not admit readily.

“Caramel apples, and toffee. Well, Amba likes toffee a little better, I think. The honeycomb type.”

“Amba? Pityafinwë?” Fëanor questioned. He had not yet unravelled the mystery of what mechanisms the twins had devised to separate their identities.

“Sometimes. Today, he is Amba. I am Russa. Tomorrow he may be Baru, and I Amssa. Or something entirely different. It depends.”

As Telvo carried on his speech in the sheer enthusiasm of a young child, as if making the most important announcement, Fëanor felt as if Telvo was then only half the years that he had. Or perhaps it was because he had not listened, nor let Ambarussa have a chance to speak what they wish to their father through these years.

“Well, let us stay with Pityo and Telvo for now.”

Fëanor ruffled the twins’ flaming hair, a hand on each twins’ head. The four grey eyes shone as gems he had just polished. He wondered what spirit they possessed. He thought that in time, he would see it, though it mattered less now than a conception that had preoccupied him even before the conception of Pityafinwë and Telufinwë. Its fulfilment would be vastly greater in scale and in difficulty than bringing up an infant to adulthood -- he once thought nothing could be more arduous, or important.

He had long fought against this dilemma. He thought he had already come to a conclusion, yet he found that at times when he was not focused, he still wondered if he had chosen to forgo something he should not. But one thing was clear now – that Pityafinwë and Telufinwë, too, bore the essence of his work.

 

Fëanor knelt again and drew his youngest sons into an embrace. The children smelled a waft of metal, sawdust and soot from their father’s clothing and hair – a little bit like their mother’s atelier, where armatures and sculpture casts were always being built. Ambarussa paused for a brief second, but Telvo reached an arm over Fëanor’s shoulder, grasping on to his overcoat to draw himself closer.

“Atar, when will your work be finished?” Pityo spoke quietly, next to Fëanor’s ear.

“Perhaps never,” Fëanor responded without a thought. His gaze rested on the horizon, now tinted with shades of blue and grey -- for a split instant his mind traversed to a place beyond the sea, and beyond the light of Laurelin. “…if you ask thus.”

“Then how should I ask, so that your work will be finished today?” Telvo pushed himself against Fëanor’s collarbone so that he met his father’s eyes again, still crumpling the overcoat in his firm grasp, reluctant to let go.

Fëanor laughed in mild exasperation, and amusement.

“Yes, I will dine with you tonight, Ambarussa.” Their father promised.

Fëanor planted a gentle kiss on each of the boy’s forehead. At the very least, their childhood would be safe and without a care here in Aman. This was what he could give them in the present time, which they had not yet learnt to see beyond. They were yet too young.

“Now do you not need to get dressed for your begetting day dinner?” Fëanor resumed his upright posture, and his authoritative voice.

“You must come, then. At the second mingling of lights, Atarinya.” Pityo gestured with a flourish as he spoke, in an air of finality, like a merchant who had just sealed the deal. “Otherwise we will dress to dine in the ugliest of nightshirt!”

“Oh? In that case I shall not make Fëanáro’s caramel apples for you tonight.” He raised his brows, and tilted his head slightly, giving the twins a stern look.

“Are you going to make them for us?” The twins raised their brows, too, in genuine surprise. Fëanor could see their excitement swell, as smiles spread across their small faces again.

“Yes, if you run along back home, find your mother and get dressed on the count of three. One, two…”

Ambarussa took off like arrows, in a fit of giggles. Fëanor watched them run. Their voices rang vivacious and bright, in the calm and ever peaceful air of Aman.

“Let’s find emmë and Írissë. They should be in the orchard.”

“Oh, and we must tell Tyelkormo! That our wish did come true…”

“I reckon emmë will be really happy… to have Atar with us for dinner again…”

“I hope…”

Fëanor watched his youngest sons, until their silhouettes and voices have faded into the distance and he could no longer see or hear them.

  


Their words pain him, even as Fëanor now stands alone at the door to his forge. He could very easily choose to turn around, lock the door, and continue with his unfinished work till the morrow, and for many days henceforth. Now left alone, he feels nigh absolutely reluctant to leave his work. He has not had any progress for almost a hundred days, but this morning he thought he might have found a clue. He longs return to his forge to read over the notes again, and delve further into the investigation.

He remembers a time when the two small, receding figures running to find their mother were Russandol and Cáno. It was much simpler then, when he did not ponder as often about what lay beyond their childhood. At that time he would not have had, even an infinitesimal thread, of reluctance to dine with his wife and their children. Dinner as a family was almost a regimen for the four of them, always enforced by himself. He has changed now.

He enjoyed his work still – given any project, he would be completely engrossed in it, and be at times tested and overwhelmed by it, and his time, attention, and energy consumed by it – he has long become accustomed to this momentum. But it has changed him. The thought amazes him. It once seemed that nothing would ever change.

Caramel apples. It seems so trivial to him now. He does not care much for them. He could hardly recall the last time he attempted such a feat. Was it when Turkafinwë was about seven or eight years?

It dawned on him that the exact details of his recipe, which he so seriously boasted to the children, have actually eluded his memory. Though he hoped Nerdanel might have had it written somewhere.

" _It is as melting copper, only more subtle_ " – Nerdanel had read, as she studied with him the sprawling culinary notes of her mother, and they laughed together. Russandol, Cáno and Turko hovered around the kitchen, eager to help but more often demanded for instant result, which contributed to the opposite effect. However, each of them gave their own suggestions, and the recipe was eventually revised several times over to include everyone’s preference.

He would have to talk to Nerdanel, then. Many years ago, it was for building her armatures and bronze casts that he first learnt to weld metal. He has not done that for her in a long time, neither has he cooked with her. She is probably the one teaching Morifinwë and Curufinwë on how to make those caramel apples. This evening, he will cook with Nerdanel. Moryo can Curvo could hover around and hopefully not make the process twice as long.

It will be a change.


End file.
